Reflections
by Mirvena
Summary: It's always hard to see through someone else's eyes. A couple of days in the lives of the Tracys, seen from both Scott's and Jeff's PoV.
1. Chapter 1

The next instalment of my little 'series' of PoV sketches. I've long been interested in the constructed nature of perceptions and memories and how very different they can look from the standpoints of different individuals. Who is 'right' and who is 'wrong'? Or are there just shades of grey? Juxtaposing Scott's and Jeff's perspectives of a few days in the life of the Tracy family gave me the opportunity to play with this idea a little. So this is the same story, told twice, or it's two different stories. It depends on your point of view.

It will make more sense if you've read my previous stories (particularly the recently posted 'Something wicked').

**Warnings:**

AU-alert Set sort of pre-TV-verse but I'm skiing way _off piste_ again for those who don't like such things. I probably ought to issue a serious psychobabble alert, too.

Rated M to be safe – there is some profane language and there are dark moments and hints. This is not suitable for children or anyone who likes their Tracys squeaky clean. Mine are not boy scouts; they're often seriously flawed and I give both Jeff and Scott some darker history. The subject matter is adult in many places.

**Disclaimer:**

Usual disclaimer applies, they do not belong to me, and I gratefully appreciate the chance to borrow them.

…

**Reflections: Scott**

…

_I'm immobile._

_I hear footsteps encroaching, the door open. Someone's in the room with me now, but I'm unable to move. I feel him approaching. I can't see him, just hear him. And that heavy, terrifying sense of presence. Of evil._

_I struggle against the inertia. I have to move now before he reaches me. I want to call out for Dad, for Kyrano. But even if I could make my voice work, they're not here. I'm utterly alone…with him. Neurons fire, but somehow the signals just don't get through._

_…Mom?…_

_The sense of urgency is gaining, but still I can't stir myself. I realize finally, stupidly, it's because I'm asleep, and I need to wake up._

_I scream at myself, mentally uttering a stream of profanities. It does no good. They die in my throat._

_He's close, now. Beside me. I still can't see him. I want to react, but I still can't stir properly. I can sense him, though, moving behind me, and there's a sweet, cloying smell in my nostrils, a metallic taste in my mouth._

_There is a weight on my back and legs, now, and an agonising pain in my right side where some hard object is pressing into my lower ribs. It's so precise, it's dominating my whole awareness. I'm pressed down, unable to struggle or even draw breath. _

_The pressure and the pain increases. I try not to panic. _

_What the hell is happening?_

_**- Ah Jesus, sweet Mary, please**_** no**_** -**_

_Intense pain, now, coursing in waves through my body._

_I try to call out, to shout for help, but the pressure on my chest makes it impossible. I need air._

_I'm desperately trying to pull oxygen into my lungs. It's no use._

_The sense of panic increases._

_I feel myself slipping away, my vision tunneling down._

_Nothingness._

I lose my sense of being.

_**Is this what death feels like?**_

…

The past is an alien landscape.

It's treacherous. There are patches where you can see for miles, long swathes of bare terrain, pock-marked by craters and pillars of salt, the occasional geyser throwing up lethal spurts of steam and sulfur. It's beautiful in a savage way. The moon hangs huge and low on the horizon, much closer than it is here on earth, bathing everything in serene light. But there are hidden dangers; terrors lurk in the tunnels close beneath the surface and behind the rock formations. I know. I've seen them.

I try to visit as infrequently as possible.

The future, too, is a dangerous place. It doesn't do to have hopes and dreams. They turn to molten ash, often as not.

So I live for the here and now. It isn't _quite_ safe, _quite_ predictable, and it takes a huge amount of energy, because you can't stop for a moment, but if you run at just the right speed you can keep one step ahead of the past without colliding with the future.

Last night I had The Dream.

It's always the same.

A hair's breadth from being dragged down into the tunnels by the demons of the past.

When I wake it always takes a moment to reorient myself. In that frozen moment of time my lungs still refuse to fill with air, until suddenly the pressure releases and I suck oxygen in desperately, trying not to cry out at the hideousness of it all. John, next door, sleeps lightly. And I reach down to rub my side, the phantom pain in my ribs always so terrifyingly real, until that too, finally recedes into the dawn.

It's the third time in as many weeks. While I was in the Air Force it all but vanished. I would go for months at a time without it invading my sleep. Here on the island, where I should feel safest, it's gotten worse. I don't understand.

There's always a lasting effect. I'm left feeling off-balance, anxious. I need to shake the feeling, and fast. I hate not being in control. I hate it with a passion. I just don't want to be this self-absorbed. I have to be invulnerable. Because they all need that from me. It isn't some stupid macho thing. It's just that if they doubt me, even for a moment, then they'll start doubting themselves. And that's when we'll start to make mistakes and fall apart as a team.

So it isn't so much that I need to make certain they need to know they can depend on me, one hundred percent. It's that I can't let it even enter their consciousness that it could be any other way.

I've done what I always do in response, now - gone for pace, shower briskly, trying to ignore the clawing knot balling in my stomach, then slam on my running gear and start down the usual route.

The pain in my knee tells me I've gone off too fast. Ease up. Get into a rhythm, just run, stop thinking. _Get it together, Tracy._

It's a nine-mile circuit, and takes me precisely fifty-two minutes. Across the cliff path below the house, follow the shoreline, then cross-country, a rapid climb, taking the high route on the near side of the crater. Then the best bit, a short scramble to the top before heading back down via the lagoon. The terrain is rough in places but I've carved out a decent path over the months; if a call comes in while I'm out, the others will be out to pick me up. They know where I'll be. But it hasn't happened yet, and today's no exception.

It does the trick, as it always does. It situates me back in the present. By the time I'm on the home stretch, the nightmare's receded and my mind is operating rationally. I hit the shower again.

I'm back in the driving seat and ready to face the day.

…


	2. Chapter 2

Jeff's version – the flip side. Still not owning them, sadly.

…

Reflections: Jeff

…

_/// She bites her lip a little and nods, her hands folding into my lapels. "I know, honey. It's all you dreamt of, I know."_

"_Please, Lucy. What was your news?" I realize I've been a dolt, rambling on about the mission for half-an-hour or more. But this is the most important thing that ever happened to me. Surely I'm entitled to some excitement – even a little self-congratulation?_

_She meets my eye. "I'm pregnant."_

_With those two words, my world falls apart ///_

…

There's a soft mewling of sea-birds, the distant crashing of wave against cliff, and the smell of the salt air. To someone brought up in land-locked Kansas the sound and sight of the sea never ceases to be a novelty.

In contrast, the house itself is quiet. Bliss!

These early hours of the morning before the rest of the household wakes are precious. I think I'd probably go insane without them. The rest of the time…well, take five energetic young men – six, if you count Hiram – and throw them together in a small space without much occasion for letting off steam in the time-honored ways – drink is off the cards much of the time, and women are certainly in short supply - then put them on indefinite standby for one of the most hazardous jobs in the world. And what do you get? There's a kind of perpetual, barely-restrained pandemonium around here.

Don't get me wrong - I love all my boys dearly. They're the most important thing in my life.

I just never intended for it to happen. Not like this.

International Rescue has been in the pipeline for a long, long time. Before it came to the point of realizing it, I had visions of surrounding myself by ex-military types; capable, predictable, and undemanding. It never occurred to me in the planning stages that it would end up a family affair. Well maybe one, or two…but _all_ of them? Perhaps it's been for the good, in many ways. But it's become one giant black hole, sucking us relentlessly into its vortex.

Virgil was the first on board. We needed someone to oversee the parts assembly and he seemed like a logical choice, a year or so out of Denver, bored with his first dead-end job in Seattle, and, above all, fiercely loyal. I knew he'd keep his mouth shut and besides, the idea of having Virgil around was appealing. And then it seemed a wasted opportunity not to recruit John's undoubted genius…and so it snowballed. I approached first Gordon, then Alan, with offers of a future place on the team.

What was lacking was an experienced field operative, someone who could turn on a dime from test pilot to heading up a crack rescue team. As determined as I was not to poach Scott from the Air Force, things have a habit of working out in unexpected ways, and when he came on board it was though some final piece of the jigsaw clicked into place.

So here I am with my whole family around me, living my dream. I should be pretty happy with my lot. I am – really I am.

I just that I thought _maybe_ they'd have grown up a little more by now. But I'm an only child myself, so, to be fair, I really didn't see what was coming.

On his own, each one of them at least half-way resembles an adult. But off duty, they're brothers and they do what brothers do - what they've always done. I've finally come to realize that their everyday interactions are based on long-established patterns of behavior that are hard to break, and these grown men revert to type. They annoy the hell out of each other – and me. They bicker, they fight, they lark about, play practical jokes on one another. Allegiances form and re-form daily with a kind of fluid intelligence all of their own. Most of the time I feel like I have a household full of teenagers.

And yet, when the klaxon sounds I have to admit that something truly miraculous occurs. They instantly set aside the old baggage, and re-group, coalescing into an entirely new entity. They're the dream team, in so many ways, and so astonishingly complementary. A perfect set.

I'm learning more about my perfect set every day. How many parents really know their kids? We think we do. We pat ourselves on the back when they turn out smart and strong and say we saw it coming. We even hope some of it was down to us. But not many get the opportunity to see their kids stretched to the limit and tested they way I do. There's nothing like watching them put their lives on the line day in, day out, to teach you what they're really about. At first I worried about how ridiculously young they all are. But the way they work together belies their chronological ages.

They seem like the perfect set. And yet, I wonder. A perfect set makes for a fragile balance. The more perfect they are, the more precipitous the tight-rope walk becomes. It wouldn't take a lot to jar something – or someone - loose.

So what I do isn't a job; no, it's become a whole way of life. Would I have it any other way? Some days, no. On other occasions when I watch my boys come back drained after a grueling rescue, I'm less certain. I'm putting an immense amount of pressure on them, and there's precious little let-up.

And I live with the constant fear. That one of them won't come back. One part of me wants to be out there with them, to keep an eye on them. The better part knows I have to trust them to do their jobs.

But it's a strain. We're constantly short-handed. And still we're only part-way to being truly _International_. I haven't negotiated landing rights in the States or in Europe or a variety of other places yet. And yet we're establishing no small reputation. Not a month goes by without at least a couple of call-outs. We're fast becoming victims of our own success. We cannot go on like this. This thought has been at the back of my mind now for months.

So now I've finally done something about it I guess I should feel better. But there are issues that are still unresolved, and I suppose it's time to resolve them. Way past time, if I'm honest with myself.

The slamming of a door catches my attention and jerks me out of my reverie. Scott, off for his morning run.

I have work to do. International Rescue doesn't fund itself.

Time to stop day-dreaming and get my head back down into the minutiae of business. I must finish reading these company forecasts. I need to talk to Scott this morning, and it's a conversation I've been putting off as long as I can.

…


	3. Chapter 3

**Scott**

…

I've dealt with some of my more urgent private transactions and it's time to take ten before I get to the real business of the day. And it's _glorious_ day. Kyrano's laid out breakfast by the pool, God love him, meaning I can do two of my favorite things – eat and watch Gordon – at the same time.

"Good morning, Mr Scott," Kyrano says, pouring coffee.

Outsiders probably take it for a formality, the grudging respect of a paid retainer for his wealthy employer's rich-kid brat, but it's nothing of the sort; it's just an old family joke. Kyrano's known us since we were kids. I remember way back when Dad told us that Kyrano was coming to live with us he explained the Malaysian custom.

"Boys, you'll hear me call him Kyrano. That's his given name. But you should call him Mr Kyrano."

It cracked Johnny up for days; he was at that kind of age. "I guess that makes me _Mister_ John. And Mister Scott and Mister Virgil and…"

Kyrano saw the joke. The habit stuck.

"Is it strong enough for you?"

I glance into the mug. It looks like I could stand the spoon up in it. It'll do. "I guess."

He looks at me sideways. I swear that man can read minds. "You did not sleep well?"

I shrug. "You know how it is."

I watch as Gordon executes a racing turn and powers away from us, freestyle. The sheer speed takes my breath away, every time I watch him. He tells me he's a lot slower than he used to be, but then I never saw him at his very fastest. You don't get the real deal on screen. I'd have given pretty much anything to be there. But I had to settle for watching it via a fuzzy satellite link in the middle of a desert sandstorm. None of the support team could figure out why I just had to see the hundred metre 'fly _heats_ because one of the US team was some snot-nosed kid from my home town – we all operate under aliases so they didn't make the connection - yet they humored me anyhow. But it must have been infectious, because by the time it came to the final they were cheering him on like he was _their_ brother.

The water's good for him. He still works out a lot, but he doesn't do as much weight training as he used to. His back and shoulder won't take it.

Kyrano sits beside me.

"You love to watch him, do you not?"

"Poetry in motion," I agree. "But don't tell him I said that."

Gordon I love with all my being. I always have, I can't help it. The guy can put me in a good mood at a hundred paces. The first time I picked him up he was just a few days old. He hurled all over me with surprising vigor for something so small then looked at me, affronted, like it was all my fault. I didn't care then and nothing he's done since has fazed me. Even when he crashed his 'foil I stayed positive; I couldn't let myself even begin to imagine life without him. I guess if something ever happened to him I'd have to keep going, because there'll always be people out there who need us. But the bit of me that cares about living, not just _being_, would die right along there with him.

At the far end of the pool he flips onto his back and starts a lazy length back toward us. Winding down for the morning.

He approaches Kyrano and me, pulls himself out of the water, shaking himself like a dog, in a deliberate attempt, I'm sure, to shower the both of us.

I throw him a towel. He rubs water out of his eyes.

"Hey, BB. Are those waffles?"

I grab the plate fast. "Nope. They're temptation. Waffles are not on your diet."

"Says who?"

The situation quickly deteriorates into a brief but bloody waffle war. Kyrano, sensibly, flees.

…


	4. Chapter 4

**Jeff**

…

///_ Eventually Ben, the chief medic, and later lifelong friend, draws me aside and sits me down._

"_Jeff, for pity's sake, get over yourself. It's as plain as the day that you're madly in love with this woman. But unless you want to make it back to Earth only to find that she's found some other guy and he's bringing up your kid, I suggest you contact her and let her know how you feel."_

_I freeze._

_It hadn't even occurred to me. I'm _that_ stupid._

_I begin to send frantic messages._

_Her due date comes and goes._

_There's no news. _

_Why the hell won't anyone tell me what's going on?_

_After a week, I'm useless. After two, a wreck._

"_Jeff? Word just came through from Mission Control. Congratulations – you're a father."_

_I blink, uncomprehending for a moment. _

"_You're kidding…you mean, Lucy…?"_

"_Healthy baby boy" _///

…

My stomach suddenly growls. I glance at my watch in surprise. How the hell did it get to eight-o-clock? I stretch.

As if on cue there is a soft knock at the door. Kyrano.

He enters, tray in hand.

"Oh, Kyrano – sorry. I'd intended to head down to the pool."

He shakes his head very gently in response.

"No?"

"Not a good idea, Mr. Tracy."

"The boys in exuberant spirits this morning, I take it?"

"I believe there was a full moon last night," he responds, poker-faced.

I grunt. "Any sign of John?"

"I have not looked in on him. Would you like me to?"

I shake my head. "Let him sleep. He'll need a couple of days to himself." John always needs time to acclimatize himself to human company. His brothers understand this and give him some space. But not everyone does. "I'll try to get Hackenbacker to leave him alone for a while."

Hiram's a good man, but a tad over-enthusiastic sometimes and he lacks empathy. He's been known to drag Johnny into the darkest recesses of his laboratory the moment he steps back onto the island. They're pretty much of an age, and my middle boy's the nearest thing our resident wünderkind has to a close friend, I guess.

It'll be good to have John home.

John was a very odd child, and though he wasn't wholly lacking in social skills I worried constantly about his ability to fit in. He still maintains an emotional distance that torments his more passionate brothers at times. I imagined he'd turn out rather like Hiram, but they're not in the least bit alike, except for their towering intellectual capacities. I worried that John, too, lacked empathy, and maybe he does. But, if so, he does a mighty good job of emulating it. It's a skill he's honed on the fairer sex, I guess, but he's learned to apply it to reassuring the frightened and the injured and the desperate.

I sit back and sip coffee, wondering. _Just when was it he learned to do that?_

Ten minutes later and there's the faintest of noises from the window, a soft footfall as someone vaults in, and an arm snakes around my neck.

An overtly noisy – and slightly sticky - kiss plants itself on my temple. A moment later powerful hands start to massage my lower neck; he knows instinctively where the cricks are and irons them out in a few swift strokes.

It's hard to resist a smile. "Good morning, Gordon."

"Yeah, yeah," he says dismissively. He releases me and risks helping himself to a mouthful of coffee from my mug as he swings swiftly around the desk.

I growl at him a little, and he pulls a face and puts the mug down. "I don't know how you can you drink this stuff so strong, anyway." He hesitates before getting round to the reason for his visit. "Just wondering…"

It's a tone of voice I recognize well.

"What do you want this time, boy?"

"Well, I thought with Johnny back…if you didn't need me at the weekend…I might hop over to the mainland to watch Alan race."

Gordon, my dearest Gordon, I am learning how to say no to. I wouldn't describe him as spoilt – far from it - but he's always known how to play me. Moreover, I'm finding out that he is quite capable of living with it. Gordon, I am discovering, is a consummate professional.

This is one of those times. "I'm sorry, son. You've had your fair share of shore leave recently; Scott and Virgil could both use some downtime sometime soon."

He snorts. "You might be right about the big fella. I figure he's on heat. If he doesn't pay a visit to his love-bunny soon something's going to explode."

Or at least, this is what I choose to hear. The reality is something even cruder; he likes to remind us he was Navy, albeit for a short time. I pretend I haven't heard it at all, but I do make a hasty scribbled note to myself. I'll send Virgil to the mainland just as soon as we can spare him.

Gordon considers further. "Scott won't take it, though."

I beg to differ. Lately he's been as skittish as a mustang on ice. If I don't send him off soon to climb a serious rock face he's going to start climbing the villa walls instead. But Gordon's right, he'll take more persuading.

"That's still a 'no'," I respond firmly.

He shrugs then smiles. "Johnny okay?"

"I haven't seen him yet…don't even _think_ about disturbing him."

He opens his eyes in mock alarm. "'kay already. I'll leave the Great White Owl alone."

"Do you have work to do?" I inquire mildly.

"I'm going, I'm going." He leaves by a more conventional route than he entered.

It isn't the last of the interruptions.

The vid-phone beeps. I sigh.

Alan.

Now, Alan _was_ spoilt. As a baby he was a little premature, a little small, and we all fretted over him. He got a lot of attention, and he's always enjoyed the spotlight. But he's growing up into a fine young man, and, with a bit of effort, admittedly, I am learning to let him. He's highly principled, and in that respect, a true Tracy. I'll be glad when he finally joins us full time and John can take a little more of a back seat and be the intellectual powerhouse of the operation that he _ought_ to be.

For a split second I wonder what he's doing up at this time in the morning, before I remember it's four in the afternoon there.

He sounds a million miles away. There's a lot of background noise. He's excited to the point of incoherence and it takes me a few minutes before I can slow him up enough even to begin to figure out what he's going on about. He's dressed in racing gear, and I debate whether or not to tell him that the hand he's running through towsled blond hair is oil-stained.

"Dad, _thank you_…I can't tell you how much this means to me. I've been trying to cut into the Cahill League for _months_ but I couldn't get a backer…"

"The Cahill League?" I've heard of it. It's a new-ish circuit but I don't know much about it – except that some of the routes are on real roads, and it's got a reputation for attracting hell-raisers. There have been accidents. I have a slightly uneasy feeling about this.

"Don't kid, Dad. I know what you're up to. I've got a fantastic team. The chief mechanic is Kenny Malone – I mean _the_ Kenny Malone. The car is great, unbelievably fast, and I…"

"Just hang on a minute," I try to cut in.

"Look, I've got to go; we've got the prelims on Sunday and I need to get used to the way she handles; I've got the track in five minutes – but I wanted to ring and say thanks so much Dad, you're the _best_. See you."

"But I didn't…."

But he's already rung off, leaving me wondering – admittedly not, with Alan, for the first time – what the devil he's talking about.

…


	5. Chapter 5

**Scott**

…

Just when I'm right back on balance again, Dad decides to throw me a curve-ball.

I pretty much career into him in the hallway. It's these bloody deep-pile carpets he's had fitted – you can't hear anyone coming. Gordon just loves them.

"Scott – good, I need to see you, son. In my office, now, if you will."

His tone is slightly kindly, which usually means bad news. I feel a slight pain just above the right temple. Right now, I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

"Can it wait, sir? The stabilizers on Three felt just a little off last night when we brought her down and I was going to check them out this morning." It's the truth, more or less.

"She isn't going anywhere in the next ten minutes." He turns snappy quickly enough. "My office. Now." He clearly isn't going to take no for an answer.

I glance at my watch hoping he'll think I've arranged to meet Hiram or John, but he doesn't take the bait and I don't have much option but to trail after him.

"I had a call from Alan this morning," he shoots back over his shoulder. "Apparently he's got a backer for the Cahill League. You know anything about that?"

My heart stops. "Know…?"

He glances at me curiously. "I just wondered if you'd heard anything – you take quite an interest in racing, don't you? I can't say I'm happy. I had this idea it was dangerous. And he's barely on track with his studies as it is."

The heart starts right up again, going zero to about one-fifty in a blink, but gradually slowing to something manageable. Okay. Under control. "Gordon's the guy to ask. He follows Alan's career more closely than I do."

Dad just grunts. We reach the office. He signals me to sit but I pretend I haven't seen him. He gives up and gets to the business.

"I need to talk to you about your grandmother."

My heart hits the floor. It's having a real bad time of it today.

I've known this was coming for months now but one part of me has been pretending this is _not_ going to happen.

I steel myself.

"I think maybe it's time to bring her over here, Scott. Elsie Marchant died last month and the Pickfords hardly ever get over to see her these days. I don't think old Martin can see to drive. Mom's getting lonely. She's still as sharp as a butcher's knife and she needs to feel that she's part of something. She could still make a genuine contribution."

Why is he telling me before the others? Shouldn't this be a family decision?

"Yes, sir."

He gives me a curious look.

"Are you going to be okay with it?"

There's a faint tremor beneath my feet. I just didn't run fast enough this morning.

Lately he's been pushing and pushing at me. To turn around, and re-visit the past. I don't know what the hell he's trying to achieve by it.

I got a reputation in the Air Force as a strategist. I can join the dots, but what's the big deal? It's the same with the math. There are the facts – things that _are,_ and there are probabilities – things that _could be, _and there are a whole series of lines and equations that link them. I see them in color; yellows and greens for the urgent and the dangerous, blues for the solid links, purples and reds for the risky ones, and they all of them resonate at their own particular frequency; the trick is to get them to harmonize. It's multi-dimensional, constantly shifting, like some fantastically complex _son et lumiere_ display. I quit trying to explain it to people a long time ago. They look at you like you're not quite right.

It all works just fine and dandy, but some things just mess with the equations. So you slam down the top on the box and you bury them deep in the tunnels and you move on. You don't go digging them up. Look what happened to Pandora.

There's no way I'm going back there, Dad.

_Keep the lid on it._

I contemplate a longer reply but decide to keep it simple."Yes, sir."

"I don't want to mess up here, Scott. I know you don't like changes."

I'm suddenly tired of playing the game. I know it isn't up for debate and I have absolutely no idea why we're having this conversation.

"What do you want from me, sir?"

My headache's getting worse.

"A little honesty wouldn't go amiss."

Not a chance.

"Whatever plans you have for expansion are your business. I'll do my job."

"I hear you may have a few plans for expansion of your own."

_Shoot_. What has he picked up? He's right, I don't like changes. But we're working flat out and it's taking its toll on my brothers. I've been thinking about ways of expanding the outfit, sure. But the only person I've talked it through with is Virj, and tentatively at that. I specifically asked him to keep his mouth shut until I've fleshed it out some and I can take it to Dad as a viable proposition. Surely he wouldn't?…not Virj. But then again, maybe…he's close to Dad in some way I just can't begin to fathom. I take the bait, despite myself.

"What do you mean?"

"This doctor friend of yours…" he hesitates. "_Stevie_. Maybe we can use her on the team?"

I'm _totally_ wrong-footed by this. How the hell does he think _that's_ going to work?

"Are you kidding me?"

"Scott, I understand that sooner or later one of you is going to want a family of your own. And I guess it would be nice to have kids around the place again."

The sudden change of direction has thrown me completely. When did this turn into a conversation about the proliferation of the Tracy dynasty? Has it escaped his notice that we're on an island? Most of the women we meet are _in extremis_. Or in body bags. Or turn out…turn out to be Stevie.

She would have been good here. And he's right; we really could have used a doctor on the team.

The island's a blessing in some ways. But I'd given up much hope of meeting anyone once I moved out here. Okay, so I got a little desperate that one time. Would I really have married The Shark if John hadn't intervened so drastically? I like to think not. I was just trying the idea on for size.

I hadn't expected to meet anyone like Stevie.

I like her. A lot. Am I in love with her? I…well, I admire her. That's enough, I guess. She's just a little scary, admittedly. Truth. I _do_ want a family of my own now that the rest of them are all grown up. I want kids, someone who liked me for something more than the Tracy billions would be a bonus.

But it's academic now. We were doing just fine until I told her who I was.

Steve's the antithesis of the bounty hunters. When I told her my real name I saw something come into her eyes that I couldn't quite identify. Pity? Maybe even repugnance. She made little attempt to hide it.

I had just let myself dream a little.

How fucking stupid was that?

Ashes.

Everyone on the island knows she turned me down last week.

"Scott?"

I realize I'm still standing staring at him, my mouth hanging open.

"You must have thought about it, surely, son."

_Thought about it…?_

My mind is still awash with images and a kind of blind craziness takes over momentarily. The words rush out of my mouth without any kind of inhibition. Anything to shut him up.

"If you think any of us is going to provide you with grandchildren any time soon, you can think again."

He looks taken aback and attempts a joke. "The way Johnny's going, I'm surprised I don't have any already."

I'm stunned. You've got to hand it to the old man, he gives insensitivity a whole new meaning. How the hell he manages to press so many of my buttons all at once I'll never know.

_Fuck you, you insensitive sonofa…_

"Yeah? Well maybe some of us are a whole lot more careful than you were."

Again, the words are out of my mouth before I even have a chance to monitor them.

For a second I think he's actually going to deck me. It wouldn't be the first time his temper got out of hand. But he gets it under control.

And somehow, so do I.

I realize I am _way_ out of line. The headache turns into a blinder.

"I'm sorry, sir." I mean it. "That was uncalled for."

"Yes, it was." He turns his back on me. The fact that he doesn't even bother to dismiss me tells me how much I've infuriated him.

The earlier anxiety is back in spades. I turn to go.

It's hard enough living with him sometimes. Can I live with his mother, too? I guess I'm going to have to. But right now I don't even want to think about it.

…


	6. Chapter 6

**Jeff**

…

_/// She'd named him Michael, for her father. It figured. I wasn't thrilled, but I didn't think I had much right to complain._

_It had been a tense, difficult labor. And it's taken her four months to make it out to the communications relay._

_But now I see her settle herself down, feeling a small shock at the sight of her. I still can't get over how breathtakingly beautiful she is, even here, through the haze of static and the unflattering camera angles._

_We exchange awkward pleasantries. It takes her a little while to get the hang of the time-lag as the satellite relays the laser signal._

"_Lucy," I hardly know where to begin. "Lucy I've wanted so much to see you. I've been such an idiot."_

"_Are you expecting an argument?"_

"_Are you okay? I've been so worried." I collect myself. _

_She smiles, and makes everything right again in that single moment. "We're fine, Jeff."_

_And - because I know it will please her -"What am I thinking of? I haven't even asked about the baby. How's he doing?"_

_She reaches down out of sight of the camera for a moment. Then I realize she's brought him along. _

_I return to cold reality with a jolt. I'd had no information to work with; just my mind's eye, and in it he'd looked exactly like her, with her amazing combination of peach-blonde hair and dancing amber eyes._

_But he's nothing like her. Blue-eyed, pale complexion, darker-haired than either of us, a throw-back to Lucy's father, perhaps._

_Seeing the child leaves me cold and still a little frightened of my responsibilities._

"_So this is Michael." I manage to keep my tone light, hoping she won't hear the apprehension._

_She looks at me, sideways smile, that way she has _

"_Funny thing happened there, Jeff."_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Michael stuck for a few weeks. But the truth is, it all got kind of confusing for Mom. She's got a lot worse recently. Sometimes she thought I was talking about Dad." At our first meeting I'd found Lucy's mother reserved and oddly vague; only later did I discover she was suffering from viral induced dementia. _

"_I'm sorry. About your mother, I mean."_

"_We're coping. In any case…" she continues, hoisting him up so I can see him properly, "…the more I looked at him, the less like a Michael he looks. Don't you think?"_

"_So?" I asked, cautiously._

"_Well, I remembered our first date. You were talking about having lots of kids and naming them all after the early astronauts and all?"_

_I remember. And having – and naming - kids seemed like an idea for the future. The far distant future. _

"_So after a while I started naming him for one of the Mercury Seven, instead, just liked you planned."_

_I'm oddly taken with this notion. It gives me my first feeling of connection, of having something to do with this child._

"_Which one?"_

"_Well, I did my homework. I have to say he gave me one helluva time at the hospital. I was in labor for ever." She looks round at him and runs a finger down his nose. "Wasn't I, you monster?" She turns back to me. "He really couldn't seem to figure his way into the world. Two weeks late, and even then, he presented butt first. So…"_

_She looks straight at the camera, a flash of amusement in her eyes. I suddenly catch her meaning. A fine pilot, sure, and a great man, but not known for his navigation skills._

"_Scott Carpenter!" we chorus ///_

…

I admit I had misgivings about putting Scott on the team. He and I have a whole cargo-hold full of personal baggage. But the murmurings from the higher echelons of the Air Force were that he was good, among the best. When I read the personnel file Johnny bootlegged for me it felt like I was reading the biography of a complete stranger. But he was never what I expected, right from the word go.

I don't know what I'd expected from him here. I thought he'd be competent, but rigid, that he'd play it all straight by the book. But I couldn't have been more wrong. Virgil's the one who keeps the boat steady. Scott is a lateral thinker, the strategic genius; he has genuine vision. When I send him out on a rescue I'd say about two times out of three he does pretty much what you'd expect. The rest of the time he's completely off the wall. His solutions are novel, and sometimes dangerous – he drives Hiram nuts - but they save lives. So far he's always managed to pull it off. But he must be using up lives faster than a cat.

I walk into him – almost literally - in the hallway as we round opposite corners. He has the usual air of express train about him. Why the hell he has to rush everywhere at the speed he does is anybody's guess. He holds up his hands defensively, rolls backwards.

"Scott – good, I need to see you, son. In my office, now if you will."

"Can it wait, sir? The stabilizers on Three felt just a little off last night when we brought her down and I was going to check them out this morning."

"She isn't going anywhere in the next ten minutes," I growl at him. Damn it, he always does this to me. If it's business, he's all attention. But he seems to have a gut instinct when it's a personal matter and just avoids me until I give up trying to corner him. He isn't going to get away with it today. "My office. Now."

He looks at his watch impatiently, just to let me know he's too busy for this, but accompanies me, albeit reluctantly.

I try to engage him in small talk as we go. Anything is better than the unnatural silence that so often builds up between us. "I had a call from Alan this morning," I note conversationally. "Apparently he's got a backer for the Cahill League. You know anything about that?"

He stops, looking a little confused. "Know…?"

Obviously he hasn't picked up on it. I smirk a little inwardly. He's losing his touch - he must be annoyed that he hasn't kept his ear closer to the ground. "I just wondered if you'd heard anything," I continue. "You take quite an interest in racing, don't you? I can't say I'm happy. I had this idea it was dangerous. And he's barely on track with his studies as it is." Now _there's_ the understatement.

"Gordon's the guy to ask," he murmurs as we enter the office. "He follows Alan's career more closely than I do."

Hm. I'd hardly call it a _career_.

I gesture to a seat but he ignores me. I give up and perch on the side of my desk so I can look him square in the eye. I'm not letting him have the upper hand here.

He picks a spot slightly to my left and towards the floor to focus on. So much for looking him in the eye.

Okay – deep breath, and here goes. With Scott you start with the familiar, then if you get an opportunity you ease gradually into the other stuff. The familiar can be bad enough.

"I need to talk to you about your grandmother."

He gives a single nod, his face a blank mask, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. I was right - it's going to be one of _those_ conversations. I take a deep breath.

"I think maybe it's time to bring her over here, Scott. Elsie Marchant died last month and the Pickfords hardly ever get over to see her these days. I don't think old Martin can see to drive. Mom's getting lonely. She's still as sharp as a butcher's knife and she needs to feel that she's part of something. She could still make a genuine contribution."

He's good. His new-found fascination for the weave of my carpet doesn't waver for an instant.

"Yes, sir."

I stare at him until he eventually, reluctantly, meets my eye. I'm determined to get some kind of a reaction out of him.

"Are you going to be okay with it?"

He hesitates a moment too long. "Yes, sir."

I still can't read him. But I suspect the old tensions aren't far beneath the surface.

"I don't want to mess up here, Scott. I know you don't like changes."

"What do you want from me, sir?"

Good question. What do I want?

I want a son, not a junior officer.

I want him to stop calling me "sir" just once in a while.

I want to turn the clock back thirty years, and do things differently.

And just once in a while I want to hold the nine year old in him and tell him everything's going to be okay. Too damn late for that. A long time later – too late - someone told me that nine is the very worst age to lose your mother and Scott, well, he was a month short of his ninth birthday. Eight going on forty-eight. He always seemed so…self-possessed - and I had other worries.

I want….more than he will give me.

"A little honesty wouldn't go amiss."

He looks at me sharply now. "Whatever plans you have for expansion are your business. I'll do my job."

I struggle to keep my temper. "I hear you may have a few plans for expansion of your own."

"What do you mean?" His eyes narrow.

"This doctor friend of yours…" Hell, I should have checked her name. Steph? Stevie, that's it. "Stevie. Maybe we can use her on the team?"

This gets his attention, but not in the way I intended.

"Are you kidding me?" He seems incredulous. Or angry. Or both.

I gather it's getting pretty serious. Maybe he doesn't want to put the young woman in the line of fire. I can understand that. But she would be a useful addition to the team, and it's my way in to the next bit of it. And if he really can't cope with the worry of having her out on rescues we could at least accommodate anything else he has in mind.

"Scott, I understand that sooner or later one of you is going to want a family of your own. And I guess it would be nice to have kids around the place again." He loves children, and he'd be damn sight better at the whole thing than I was at his age, I'll grant him that.

He contemplates the floor again now, biting his lip. He looks furious; I know he considers his personal life none of my business, but I'm stunned by this over-reaction.

"Scott?"

Maybe I've read him all wrong. Obviously he isn't that serious about her. Damn it – I'd been trying to lighten things up, not antagonize him. "You must have thought about it, surely, son?"

His head snaps up suddenly, his eyes flashing. "If you think any of us is going to provide you with grandchildren any time soon, you can think again."

What the hell is _that_ about?

I've clearly hit one of those sore points that I'm supposed to know about by some act of telepathy. All parents know the score. I should be grateful. I hear girls are worse.

I quash my reaction to this and make one last-ditched attempt to diffuse the unexpected turn this conversation has taken with humor. "The way Johnny's going, I'm surprised I don't have any already."

"Yeah? Well maybe some of us are a whole lot more careful than you were."

That is _straight_ below the belt and catches me so far off-guard that the motor command actually shoots down my arm and balls my hand into a fist before I inhibit it.

He spots it and flinches, just a fraction.

I hate it that he does that.

The stupid thing is that he could floor me in an instant if he wanted to. I know damn well he could put down someone twice his size. But he wouldn't. He'd let me strike him and wouldn't put out a hand to stop me. _Honor thy father and mother_, _eh Scott? _

But I realize I've been less than tactful. I know exactly what he's referring to.

My mind flashes back to the first time he needed his documents. He'd have been about sixteen. I'd dug them out for him, unthinking; stupid as always. His reaction was one of pure horror.

It just hadn't occurred to me he didn't know Lucy and I weren't married when he was born.

I tried to placate him then, tell him it was no big deal, but he'd given me a look of utter contempt and fled the room. It was a big deal to him, apparently.

He's bright enough. I don't think it took long for him to work some other things out. He's always sensed my ambivalence, I know. I was too young when he was born. I _didn't_ do well by him, that's for sure. The idea of spending three years in space held no terrors for me. The idea of imminent fatherhood did. I'd taken up the NASA posting, convincing myself that I was doing the right thing. Married? Hell, we were scarcely a couple, separated as we were by fifty million miles of cold, empty space, and a disagreement that felt at least that big.

My own image didn't take a lot of tarnishing. But I'd trodden on the memories of his mother, and that was something he couldn't forgive.

It turned into one of our bigger rows. _Mea culpa_, yet again, I guess. But it was a long time ago.

_Get over it, for pity's sake._

Maybe he hears me. He looks down and his shoulders slacken again. "I'm sorry, sir. That was uncalled for."

"Yes, it was," I rejoinder coldly and sit down at my desk to let him know the interview is over.

He slinks off quietly.

So much for the familiar. I can't cope with breaking the rest to him. It's the coward's way out, I know, but I'm going to have to get Virgil to do it.

I put my head down, try to get on with my work. But the encounter has irritated me and I find I can't concentrate.

Why the hell do I let him do this to me?

…


	7. Chapter 7

Scott

…

The headache is receding a little, but any kind of motivation I'd worked up to face the day drained away in Dad's office to be replaced by a desire to go curl up under a stone somewhere. I'm twenty-nine years of age and he still has the capacity to make me feel and behave like a five-year-old.

All thoughts of working on Three abandoned for the moment, I head for the gym. If I don't kick-start again I'm in danger of stalling. I'm praying it's empty. If Virj is in there he'll spot my mood in an instant, and right now, I need to blast it, not talk about it.

I'm half out of luck. John. I'm surprised. I thought he'd still be sleeping. I brought him back down from a long stint in Five in the middle of the night. He was tired and irritable. He's desperate to finish his doctoral thesis and he's been up into the early hours every night – or whatever it is that passes for night up there - trying to hit his own self-imposed deadline. But now I guess he's figured I'm going to order a full fitness work-up in a day or two and he had darned well better pass it.

Still, at least it's John, not one of the others. When a guy's not in a mood for small talk John's your man. He grunts a greeting then ignores me and concentrates on what he's doing.

Half an hour later and it's no damn good. I still can't focus and my limbs feel as heavy as lead. I keep replaying the conversation with Dad over and over, working out how I _should_ have handled it. Why didn't I just get a grip?

I give up on the workout and shower for the third time this morning. I take it slow this time, feeling numb as the jets shoot across my body.

When I emerge, one towel round my waist and another in hand, John's waiting, sprawled casually across the benches, a mildly sardonic look on his face.

"What's up bro'?" he asks.

"Nothing."

He snorts.

I ignore him for a moment but he continues to stare.

"_What_?!" I ask, exasperated.

"Kind of half-hearted in there, weren't you?" He's well-used to the kind of pace I normally pull. He reaches back over his shoulder and fingers some non-existent mark on the wall. "Care to share?"

Jeez, he's turning into Virgil. _You going soft on me Johnny-boy?_

"Nope."

He shrugs. "Suit yourself." He tugs off his vest slowly. I wait for him to hit the shower so I can dress in peace, but he isn't in any hurry. "Don't mind me," he drawls lazily, knowing damn well that I do.

Johnny and I have grown apart some, and I don't quite know how it happened. We were real close as kids, but somewhere he grew right up and I admit I didn't notice. He doesn't like taking orders. A lot of the time that pretty much amounts to the same thing as not liking _me_. And that's a damn shame, because I'm real fond of Johnny. He's kinda weird and quirky, but I like him. I know he enjoys spending time on his own – in space, if he can persuade us that something needs tinkering with in the satellite - but I'm happiest when he's back on base. He and I are just a little out of sync right now, that's all. I've been figuring to fix that.

And here he is, making all the moves. I'm an idiot.

"Dad's fixing to bring Grandma to live on the island."

He flips his head sideways. "Been on the cards for a while, BB."

"I guess so," I say sourly. "I just reacted like a jerk when he told me, that's all. Then it all sort of got outta hand and turned into something different."

He just raises his eyebrows. "So nothing new there?"

"I guess not."

He gets lazily to his feet and starts to strip off the rest of his clothes. I look the other way and pretend to dry off my hair some more. I might have helped Mom change his diapers when I was a kid, but I'm not all that comfortable staring at his naked butt now.

"You're all grown-up, these days, Scott. You'll cope."

"I know."

"Besides, she may figure out that the rest of us ain't boy-scouts. Maybe we can spread the heat a little."

"Heaven help you if she ever finds out what you get up to on shore leave."

Despite his record with women she still thinks the light shines out of Johnny.

"Or Gordon, what's worse," he notes.

Too terrible to contemplate. We've spent years covering for _his_ iniquities.

"Or even Alan," he adds sweetly.

The thought puts a smile back on my face. "She won't believe you. Even if she does she'll blame the rest of us for leading him astray." Something else occurs to me and I groan. "You realize we'll have to stop swearing."

He tugs at the band holding back his hair, and shakes it loose, starting to laugh as he does so. "_Shit!_ I don't think I can. But it isn't all bad."

"Isn't it?"

"Let's face it…she still bakes a pretty mean pie."

I smile mirthlessly. She's a dragon in the kitchen. I try to imagine what it's going to be like. Gordon can't so much as reheat meatloaf without poisoning us all – he gets that from Dad - but the rest of us aren't bad. Kyrano takes a day off a week, under protest. Once in a while he visits relatives and he's gone for weeks at a time. We cope. Some of us actually _like_ to turn our hand to the culinary arts when the muse moves us. But we're usually ordered out of the kitchen when she's around. Even Kyrano ducks for cover. But – it's true, she does bake a mean pie.

John recognizes the look on my face and grins. "You are _so_ easy, you know that?"

He picks up a couple of towels and finally heads for the shower, leaving me to dress in peace.

"Welcome back, John," I call after him. He just grunts.

I'm not running on a full battery today, but at least the conversation with Johnny has me part-way charged up. Enough, at least, to muster a degree of civility in my dealings with Hackenbacker.

Hiram and I are halfway through realigning the boosters when the klaxon goes off.

…


	8. Chapter 8

Jeff

…

_/// I meet her at the train terminal. There are crowds milling all around us, but in that moment I have eyes only for her. I barely notice the small child in tow, hiding close to his mother. She reaches a hand round to the boy. "Scott, honey, this is Daddy."_

_The boy seems inclined not to want to know. As I hunch down awkwardly he begins to cry. I have no idea what to do. Stop the kid crying. "Now, then, what's this?" I say, hoping I sound stern. "You're a Tracy, son. Tracys don't cry."_

_He blinks at me in surprise. But it seems to do the trick. This fatherhood thing might be easier than I thought, after all ///_

…

A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

John.

"Hey, son," I say softly. It's been a month since I've seen him. I guess he's just got up; the long hair falling over his shoulders is still damp from showering.

"Hey, Dad. You got a minute?"

"Course I have. Come on in." I get to my feet to greet him and pull him into a quick embrace. It's harder than it used to be. He has a couple of inches on me these days. And he was never the most demonstrative of my boys. I feel a slight and characteristic resistance to the greeting.

"How are things on Five?"

"Good." He nods enthusiastically enough. "I've updated the linguistics bank and the filters are working better now. We're less likely to miss a call."

I know all this already.

He hesitates. "I really wanted a word about something else." He slides onto the corner of my desk and contemplates me thoughtfully. "You finally told him about your plans for Grandma, I gather."

I thought that this conversation would be with Virgil, not John.

I'm well-accustomed to the day-to-day oscillations of my sons' allegiances. They sometimes need to be managed with a deft turn of a fatherly hand. This notwithstanding, there have been two shifts of more seismic proportions in recent years.

Scott and Johnny, as children, were surprisingly close given the five years that separated them. They're alike in some ways, polar opposites in others, which is probably why they clash on occasions. I'm not sure exactly why they drifted apart in the last few years. Scott was certainly upset when John divorced Sam. But I suspect that mostly John just grew tired of treading in his older brother's footsteps.

Virgil, as a child, often seemed quite unmoved by the everyday machinations of the Tracy household. He involved himself neither in John and Scott's pursuit of academic excellence, nor the pranks and foolishness of his youngest brothers. He was often self-absorbed, engaged in his music or tinkering around with some old piece of farm machinery that needed fixing. At school he had his own circle of friends. But something changed when he went off to college. Maybe an older brother in the Air Force counted for something in the street cred stakes, I don't know. Whatever happened, he grew into Scott pretty much the same time Johnny outgrew him.

Then there was Gordon's accident. Scott spent a lot of time encouraging, cajoling, even bullying him back to health. It was inevitable that they would form a closer bond. Gordon, too, was growing up – near death experiences tend to have that effect – and the hitherto seemingly inseparable knot that bound the youngest two began to show some signs of weakening.

Meanwhile John moved in on Alan. I can't say I'm entirely happy about John's influence. He bores easily; it makes for sensation-seeking, and with Johnny, there's usually a woman – or _women_ - in it somewhere. He has an experimental streak, and I suspect that he's not above dragging Alan into some of his wilder peccadilloes.

So I'd expected Virgil, maybe even Gordon, but not John.

"I told him."

"Did you tell him about Lee and Conchalto? He didn't mention them."

I shake my head. "I'm afraid your grandmother's as far as I got. We're going to have to feed him piecemeal. I'll get Virgil on it."

John nods cautiously. "Dad, I understand you feel the need to recruit more people to help out. But I've been thinking about this whole business with Grandma some more. Are you sure we're not rushing things?"

My eyes narrow. "Scott put you up to this, son?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's been a long time since I let him do something like that," he says, but his tone is mild. He takes off his glasses carefully, cleans them assiduously on his shirt-tail. "Besides, I think he'd be mortified if he knew I was here talking to you. Point is," he continues, "we're on such a knife-edge as it is. Leaving aside the other business for the moment – and the plain fact is he's gonna go ballistic if you get Virj to do your dirty work - do you think it's a great idea to introduce this particular variable into the equation?"

I smile at the notion of my mother as a 'variable', but I know what he means. "You're all used to having her around."

"We were as children. But things are different now. It isn't natural for adult siblings to be on top of each other all the time. But we work well together because we're relatively uninhibited. We don't have to explain ourselves, and we don't have to pretend to be something we're not. With Gran around that's going to change, you know that. It might just put a strain on things that takes us too close to the edge."

"It isn't up for debate, John."

"I'm just asking if you've considered all the options." His tone is careful.

"I'm not putting her in some old folks' home, if that's what you mean. It isn't safe, in any case – she knows too much about what we're doing here. Sharp as she is, she could easily let something slip. So don't ask me if I've considered the options."

He nods in acknowledgment. "I'm sorry – of course you have." He sighs and looks away. "I guess I'm worried about the effect it's going to have on Scott," he admits. "You know how she feels about him."

That throws me.

"He's her grandson, same as the rest of you. She loves him. I do have a fair idea how he feels about _her_."

He stares at me for a few moments then just shakes his head and puts his glasses back on.

"What are you trying to say, John?" I ask impatiently.

He looks down for a moment then away, out of the window and smiles a small secret smile. The barriers have come back up. "Nothing, Dad. Forget it. I'll be in the lab if you want me."

"Why don't you take a few days off, son? You've been driving yourself pretty hard."

He shrugs. "Promised Hiram I'd help out with a bunch of stuff."

"Well, don't overdo it."

He flips a hand at me as he leaves.

He's a hard one to fathom, sometimes. It took me years to work out why Johnny retained such a strong rural Kansas accent, commuted to varying extents in the other boys by years of living in upstate New York.

Lucy hot-housed both Scott and John (Virgil steadfastly ignored her attempts). John's intellectual abilities are holistic, and truly extraordinary. He excels at whatever he turns his attention to; math, physics, astronomy, languages, and – since computer programming is just another language, and one he speaks fluently - he can run rings around any opponent lurking in the cyber ether when he goes on one of his pirate expeditions. There isn't much he can't get his head around. No-one was surprised when he hit a near perfect SAT score at the age of just fifteen. Scott's abilities are more erratic; a bizarre grasp of mental math that I'd only ever heard of in high-functioning autistics. And, according to the Air Force file, a truly spectacular grasp of air-to-air engagement tactics.

John started school in Kansas. He went straight in at third grade. It was an unconscionable length of time before it dawned on me that throwing a super-bright kid with an East Coast accent and the looks of a Botticelli cherub in with a bunch of rednecks twice his size was maybe not the smart way to go with schooling. He must have been bullied within an inch of his life. His speech patterns changed overnight. Fitting in was never going to be easy, but I guess it set him apart from his classmates just a little less.

Scott, who also transferred in two grades ahead of himself, encountered similar problems, I gather. He went for more direct solutions and probably learned a whole lot more about how to handle himself in an uneven fight than I care to think about. Eventually we resorted to private tutors for John and we dropped Scott back a grade – just another tick on his list of things I suspect he hasn't forgiven me for. It just wasn't the Tracy family's finest hour.

I give up on work and shut down for the morning, head for the kitchen, knowing Kyrano will have set out lunch. Virgil's there, stacking up a plate – for him it's brunch, I guess. I don't know who he inherited his body-clock from; it wasn't me.

"Morning, Dad." He scarcely glances up, and stuffs a bread roll between his teeth because there's no more room on his plate. He grabs a bar-stool and perches his large bulk precariously.

"_Afternoon_, son."

He takes my meaning and removes the roll from between his teeth. "Late night," he responds with as much dignity as he can muster. "Had to talk Three down."

"Hm. Johnny and Scott both managed to put in an appearance this morning."

"That's not fair."

We've had this conversation before. Why anyone needs seven or eight hours sleep is beyond me, but I've gotten used to the fact that most of my boys do. Doesn't mean I can't tease them about it once in a while.

I chuckle. "You can get in some sleep at the weekend."

He frowns. "Sorry?"

"I've scheduled you some down-time. Go see Lily."

"Iris," he corrects automatically. Then he realizes what I've actually said and brightens perceptibly. "Really?"

"You can have a four day pass," I tell him sourly. "Not an hour longer. That's assuming we don't get a call."

"Thanks, Dad." He risks a grin. "Did you say I'd get some _sleep_?"

I growl. "Don't you ever think about making an honest woman of her?"

He looks horrified. "We like things just the way they are." He looks at me directly. "_Really_, Dad. We meet up once in a while and we have fun. No commitments."

"Crap." He doesn't know what he's missing.

"Honestly. I'm not like you. I don't need love and I don't need marriage. I've got everything I need right here except…" he shrugs. "Well, you know."

I'm swallowing coffee, which stops me growling again.

"I just want you to know that living here and having a family are not mutually incompatible."

"'kay," he says dubiously.

He's right. I shouldn't interfere. He's his own man, always has been, and makes his own choices.

He's also my window on my eldest son. So I try to make my next observation sound casual.

"As a matter of fact, I had a not dissimilar conversation with your brother this morning."

"Which one? Scott?" He seems startled.

"He seems unduly touchy at the moment."

He gives me a very old-fashioned look. "If you brought up the subject of women I guess he would be." He catches the look on my face and groans. "Tell me you didn't?"

I know with a sudden and horrible certainty what's coming. "I _may_ have done. I thought things were working out with that aid worker…" I click my fingers. Dash it, I've forgotten her name again.

"Stevie?!" he supplies helpfully.

"Why didn't someone tell me?"

"Dad!" His shoulders drop and his face twists. "You _know_ she turned him down him last week."

"I most certainly did not!" I retort with some indignation. At the back of my mind, however, I'm aware that I sometimes tune out. It's a survival mechanism. If I listened to everything the boys were talking about I'd be an expert in a whole heap of things that are definitely best left to their generation.

He confirms it. "You were in ops with me when I was filling John in."

"I'll apologize later," I mutter.

Virgil grimaces and gives a tiny shake of the head. "I'd just leave it alone if I were you. He's pretty sore."

I shake my head. "I don't understand why he's such a walking disaster area when it comes to relationships."

He chuckles. "You kidding me? John's got a list as long as your arm."

"Pots and kettles there," I observe sourly.

He glances about, as if to satisfy himself that his brothers are nowhere in the vicinity. "You ask me, Johnny knows what he wants these days. Scott doesn't."

I reach for the mayo. "Do you think maybe he's like Gordon?" I prompt, as nonchalantly as I can. I'll admit I'm curious. I've seen him turn heads – both female _and_ male. But then as a child he had those looks that verged on pretty and he's taking his time to grow out of them. Gordon was at ease with his sexuality from a very early age. But something like that would wear harder with Scott. And he would certainly have a hard job squaring that one with his _other_ closet.

But I told them when we started all this, nearly two years ago. _No surprises._ I'd ignored the groans and sat them all down around the table for a frank sex talk. The one that's probably reserved for children of celebrities and eccentric billionaires, but which became more pressing because of what we were about to embark on. No-one's name in the news, and that meant, above all things, discretion. _No A-listers _- flashing a look at Scott, who's like me, easily star-struck, and his ex-room-mate at Oxford is turning, by some strange quirk of fate, into a major box office draw. He tends to get invitations to the kinds of parties the paparazzi like to crash (though he gets around it these days by donning a dark suit and sunglasses on the way in; he's discovered that no-one takes any notice of the bodyguard). _No hookers_ (there'd been pained looks all round) and _nothing dangerous_ (with a pointed look at John who'd simply stared back innocently at me - I suspect we have different definitions of dangerous).

"And if any of you gets your kicks out of cross-dressing, now would be a good time to say so."

It had drawn a chuckle, but they had seen the serious side.

"_Come on, Dad!"_ Alan had protested_. "What happened to your legendary open-mindedness?"_ (He seemed not to notice he was setting himself up, but to their credit, none of his brothers took the bait).

"_Nothing. It's other people's closed-mindedness that worries me. We can't afford for you to get noticed. If anyone has anything they want to say now would be a good time to say it and we can all be open-minded about it together."_

That had brought a snort or two._ "And boys,"_ I concluded. _"We can't afford the publicity of a paternity suit. If you get a girl pregnant, both you and she had better have been planning it." _

I had studiously avoided looking at Scott.

Do as I say, not as I do_._

I could feel his response.

_Hypocrite_

Virgil pauses for thought now. "Bi? Scott?" He wrinkles his nose. "Whatever he might tell people, I don't think so. It just amuses him to keep everyone guessing, I think. But there's _something_ I haven't been able to figure. I think maybe he hasn't either - some day I guess he'll sort himself out and we'll all get some peace."

But we're not in for any peace right now.

The klaxon goes off.

…


	9. Chapter 9

**Scott**

…

The rescue has done what the workout couldn't – jerked me back to the here and now and stopped me feeling sorry for myself. I have a team to lead and a bunch of earthquake victims who have a lot more to worry about than I have. This is no time for self-indulgence, and I'd be grateful for the interruption if it didn't mean so much misery for the people we're trying to help.

Rescues come in different shapes and sizes. Sure, we all love the ones where we can swoop in and snatch someone spectacularly from the jaws of death and return them unharmed to their loved ones. But just as often we're in for the long haul, and it's messy and complicated, and maybe all we can so is bring out corpses.

This operation has been a real doozy and it's getting worse by the minute.

She looks about nine or ten. She's probably older; kids are less well nourished here than they are in the States. But no more than twelve. And she has no pulse.

She has crush injuries to her abdomen and legs. When we located her and she started speaking to us, I promised her, in halting Spanish, that we were going to get her out of there safely. I broke my promise. We had to move her in a hurry, as the rest of the small tenement block came down around our ears; when we got clear, her heart had given out.

Virj administered medications to counter the rush of toxins that entered her bloodstream when we lifted the debris off of her. But it wasn't enough. She's survived more than a day under the rubble, alone. Now it looks like we're going to lose her.

We start CPR, ignoring the dust settling around us. Virj is on the ground alongside her, his face concentrated, his hands domed together over her midriff, doing the chest compressions. I bend over her, close my mouth over hers, blow gently into her slight body, hoping to breathe the life back into her. My hand strays to her wrist, hoping for the first flutter that will indicate we're in time.

I think there's a faint flicker.

"Keep going," I urge my brother, unnecessarily. He has no intention of stopping.

Our defibrillator is gone, smashed in the aftershock that brought down the remains of the building and nearly buried us along with her.

We work steadily. Minutes pass. I don't know how long.

Thirty compressions, two breaths.

Keep the blood circulating; give the medication time to kick in.

Maybe she's too far gone.

I can see the frustration on Virgil's face. He isn't used to losing and he isn't planning to get used to it any time soon. "Come on, sweetheart," he urges. His voice is pleading.

I feel cold fear grip my heart. We've recovered bodies, it's true. And we've brought some of them back from the dead. We've not yet lost one we've been able to touch and talk with. Please God, don't let her die.

I feel stupid. I don't know what to do now. We should have been quicker to stabilize her and get her out. How could I have let this happen? Or happening, how can I not know how to deal with it?

_Holy Mary, mother of God…_

The forbidden words enter my mind as easily as the breath enters my body.

As it may never enter hers again.

There's a blue tinge around her lips. Cyanosis.

…_pray for us now, and at the hour of our dying._

And there's a sudden realization. This _is_ her hour.

This is not our call. It's just not meant to be.

I lean back, shake my head.

"What are you doing?" Virj looks at me askance.

"She's gone," I tell him.

"No!" He's furious; I expect it.

"Virj…"

"I'm not just giving up!"

I check my watch. "It's been too long. She's gone, Virgil."

He shakes his head, starts up with the chest compressions again. When I refuse to breathe for her, he does that, too. I'm not sure how he keeps it up – his face is grey; he's gone beyond exhaustion.

"Virj, we can't win this one," I tell him. I try to appeal to his sense of urgency. "We're needed elsewhere."

It isn't strictly the truth. There's only recovery work now.

She's the last one; no more heat signatures under the rubble. John and Gordon are just bringing out the bodies.

"Let the others deal with it," Virj rejoinders angrily.

We're short-handed. Alan is still in Massachussets. The four of us have been doing this for thirty hours almost without a break because there's no-one else here to help. Gordon is handling it like the pro he is, but John looks like the living dead. He was dog-tired to begin with, and he just isn't used to this level of physical work.

"They're exhausted. They need us, Virj."

I glance around. The old woman, the grandmother, I think, watches us as we work. There are no tears. She clutches a rosary, and rocks back and forward, muttering her own _Ave_.

The earthquake that brought down her home and destroyed her family also brought down the bridges and infrastructure that would have allowed the nearest emergency services to reach this remote outpost. That's why they called us. We're her only hope. And we've failed her. I suspect this child is the only member of her family that we've brought out. I hope the fact that we moved the girl wasn't the factor that snatched away her life. I'll never know for certain. I just know I couldn't leave her to be buried all over again.

Virgil is increasingly frustrated and becoming irrational.

"Are you going to help, or are you just going to sit there?" he snaps at me.

"It's over, Virj. Let her go." I try to sound kind.

It's hard for him. I know he believes this is the end. I wonder how long he'll keep this up. But something gets through, and he finally kneels back, tears in his eyes. He can't meet the old woman's eye.

I cross to her. "I'm sorry," I say. "There is nothing more we can do."

I put a hand on her shoulder. She reaches up, squeezes it briefly. I'm disconcerted by her reaction. I expected wailing, or recrimination, not this passive acceptance.

She looks up at me.

I see something in her eyes, and it takes a moment before I identify it.

It's forgiveness. It's not an expression I'm used to.

…


	10. Chapter 10

Jeff

…

_/// I'm standing watching from the door as she sits him down._

"_Here you go, honey. You sit back and I'll put him in your lap." Her voice is as soft as summer rain._

"_Like this?"_

"_Just like that, sweetheart. Now, you put your arm under his head like this."_

"_He's gonna wake up."_

_The baby snickers on cue._

"_Then he'll say hi to his big brother. Virgil, say hi to your brother."_

_She steps back and I see the two of them together._

_Scott's absolutely rapt._

_Twin emotions tug at my heartstring; confusion, because I'd truly expected jealousy, maybe even tantrums. And an odd glow._

_Because this is _my_ family ///_

…

I've been receiving six-hourly reports from the boys. Each one has been grimmer than the last.

They pulled out a number of people alive toward the start of the operation, but for hours now they've just been pulling out bodies. I know what that feels like. Once, on the moon base, before I headed out for the Red Planet, there was a blow-out in a section of the living quarters. Five people lost their lives when the area depressurised, and I was part of the detail that had to suit up and retrieve the corpses. It wasn't a pleasant task. The faces of the dead stay with you for a long time. It isn't anything I'd really wish on any of my boys. But I guess someone has to do it. All I can do is hope that it's making, not breaking.

Twelve hours ago I tried to get Scott to pull out, but his response was firm. "There's no-one else here to do this, sir. There are only a handful of able-bodied men here, and they have no equipment for this kind of job. If we leave them to it they're going to start shifting rubble with their bare hands to get at the bodies. Some of these buildings aren't safe. There'll be more casualties."

In the end I capitulated. For a while I was glad I did. They found another – barely - live one.

But it nearly cost my two eldest their lives, and they couldn't save the child.

Days like today, I wonder what in hell I think I'm doing.

Sometimes when I'm with the boys I see something in their eyes that both reassures me and scares the shit out of me at the same time.

Blind, unquestioning trust in a higher authority. They assume I have everything under control, that I have a plan, that I'm not just making the whole thing up as I'm going along. I get it even from Scott. He may not have much faith in me as a father, but as a CO he doesn't question my authority.

Kyrano's been quietly plying me with coffee. He enters quietly now, stands at my shoulder.

"Is there any news?"

"They're on their way back at last."

"That is good."

I glance at my watch. "ETA about thirty minutes. Can you have something standing by? They may be too tired to eat but we ought to try to get something down them."

Until we started with this business I hadn't appreciated how much weight a man can lose in thirty hours of hard labor.

He bows slightly and hesitates. "You have scarcely eaten yourself." His tone chides mildly.

I realize what he's saying and nod. "I'll come now. Brains can take care of the landing protocols."

I sit at one of the kitchen chairs and allow him to put food in front of me. But I'm still distracted by how easy it would be for something to go wrong.

"The boys took a risk today," I say to Kyrano.

He nods. "They do that every time they go out on call. But you feel this is different – why is it so?"

I sit back. "It isn't different. It's about critical mass."

He doesn't answer that, but turns his head to one side, waiting.

I sigh and look down. "A building came down. They barely made it out in time. I was right, Kyrano. It isn't fair to keep putting Scott in the position of having to make these kinds of decisions with his brothers' lives."

He sits beside me. "Have you told him of your plans yet?"

I shake my head. "Damned if I do, damned if I don't."

"He needs to know," Kyrano rebukes gently. "The sooner he is told, the more time he will have to adjust."

I know he's right. Truth is, I'm still chewing on this morning's events.

I've tried every way I know how to reach him. He resists it. I know that a relationship's a two-way process. But I was the adult; it was up to me to start the ball rolling right, and it got started so hopelessly _wrong_ that thus far there's been no salvaging it.

He'd needed me as much as any of them when his mother died. And I let him down.

Recently I've made intermittent attempts to undo some of the damage. But he just doesn't want to know. I always told myself I wanted my sons to be independent. It's true – you should always be careful what you wish for.

_Send in the fucking clowns. _

I should have been more patient yesterday morning.

…


	11. Chapter 11

Scott

…

The others have gone to crash. It's still quite early but I figure they'll sleep right through the night. I made them power nap before we brought the 'birds home, but the weariness is far too deep for half an hour in a bunk in Two to alleviate. But Dad's held me back after the debriefing.

It's going to be a balcony job. When will he get the message I'd rather keep this formal?

Aw, hell, it has its upside. At least I get to look at one of those fabulous picture-postcard sunsets while he goes into his diatribe.

_Good old Dad. At least he had the sense to build facing West…_

_Stop rambling, Tracy._

_Jeez, I'm tired._

He offers me a scotch, which I accept. Then a cigarette. Why? He knows I don't smoke. Well, once in a blue moon. And then only to keep Virgil company.

He grunts, and lights up. I lean across the rail, trying to make it look like I'm admiring the view, not like I'm trying to keep from falling asleep on my feet. Means I don't have to look at him while he's ranting, too.

But it's worse than that.

"It must have been pretty tough out there today."

Oh, Jeez, no, he's going to be nice.

_- Don't be kind. You know I don't know what to do with it -_

I shake my head.

"We're okay. We got through it. They did a good job."

"You kept going with the girl longer than you should have done, you know that."

"I know."

"It can't have been easy to let her go."

"No."

He waits. He seems to be expecting me to say something.

I swallow. "It was harder on Virj."

"Ultimately you're the one who had to make the call. First time you've lost someone."

"We've pulled out bodies before."

"I know. But this is different. She was alive when you pulled her out."

I don't need reminding.

"And she was just a child," he continues.

I don't need reminding of that either. I wait. What does he want to hear?

"How are you doing with that?"

I don't even begin to know how to tell him how I'm doing so I just nod. I suspect he's feeling as awkward as I am. I wish he'd just get to the point and I could go get some rest.

"You're good with it?"

I feel the anger rise, quash it down quickly, remembering the other day. _Yesterday. Was it just yesterday? _He's talking about this as though it was any of the hundred and one decisions we make each day. If it isn't different it damn well should be. "I'm not good with it, no. I'd have taken the risk on moving her earlier if I knew the building was going to come down. But I didn't know. I don't see I could have handled it any differently."

He jumps in quickly. "You couldn't. That's the point. You handled it just fine, son. Virgil will get over it."

Virgil was seething at the debriefing, still accusing me of quitting too soon. What does the guy want from me? I'm not exactly thrilled about losing her, either.

Virj is my rock. He keeps me grounded in this sea of insanity. He has, since before he was born. When they told me I'd have a little brother I remember being pretty darned pleased about it. Mom had me; now this strange adult I was told to call _Dad_ could have one of his own, and I figured it'd make him happy at last. Okay, so I was three. Kids' minds work in strange ways. Here it's just the same. We're on the edge, the whole time. Without him I figure this whole operation would have just blown itself out of the water right at the start. Virj stops the mix from getting too combustible. He and I might have our minor ups-and-downs – today being a case in point – but we have a deeper understanding. I know Dad's right. Virj'll come round. I just need to stay out of his way until he works through it.

"But I guess you're still feeling pretty lousy."

"I'll live with it."

He moves in close, and for a moment I have a horrible notion that he's going to put a hand on my shoulder.

But if he does, he thinks better of it.

"Good. This was always going to happen, son."

"I know," I say dully. It's true. I've never wanted to think about it. But today the past just collided with the future. I honestly don't know whether to run faster or slower.

"It was the right decision to quit when you did. And I know it must be tough. This must have been one of your worst days so far."

"I guess."

- _Please stop this. What the hell do you want from me? -_

He straightens, looks back out to sea, speaks more softly now. "I remember when you were a kid, you'd tell your brothers stories about an outfit like ours."

I look across at him in surprise. I'd clean forgotten. But he's right, I did. I got it from him of course; he'd told me those self-same stories myself when I was small.

And it stayed with me. Even when I joined up I thought maybe I'd be in this kind of work – air-sea rescue, maybe. Or maybe a combat recovery team. Where did that translate into fighter pilot? I love the speed, _hell, _yes, and the skill involved in flying a combat jet. I guess as I went through the academy I was seduced by the thought that I _could_ make the grade, and then later, when they had me try out for the top team, I watched the other people drop out one by one as they hit some sort of a ceiling, something they couldn't hack, until there was just that small, super-cool, smug, self-righteous group of us left.

Did I do it just because I was one of the few who _could_? Downright bloody-minded arrogance?

Sometimes I feel deep down that I took a wrong turn somewhere.

But then again, One is a temperamental bitch at the best of times. Would I have landed this job if I hadn't been a pretty fair fighter pilot? I don't think so. Even Dad isn't that nepotistic.

"I guess the good guys always won in the stories," I say softly. But today has hit home hard. This is real life, not a story. We lost that little girl.

Dad nods sagely.

"Well, I can tell you, son, any leader of an outfit like ours is going to have two more days like the one you've had today."

I wait. It's clear I'm not going anywhere till he's said whatever it is that's on his mind.

"The first time is when you have to make the call between abandoning the people you're trying to help and putting the team's own lives on the line."

I think about this. I know this is true too. It's another thing I've been putting on hold until I have to face it, I guess. We've all taken risks to help people. But I haven't knowingly had to leave someone to die because it was just too darned dangerous to send in one of my brothers. He's right – it will happen. I need to think about it. Given Virgil's reaction today, I'm not going to be popular when I make that call.

"And the second?" I ask him dully.

"The second is when you get that call wrong, son."

I stare at him in disbelief. Does he _really_ think I'd let that happen?

…


	12. Chapter 12

Jeff

…

_/// I see him at the bottom of the stairs with Gus and Johnny_

"_What are you doing, son?"_

_He finishes buttoning up John's best shirt and contemplates me apprehensively. "Getting Johnny dressed, sir."_

"_I can see that," I snap impatiently. "What for?" Does he think the funeral is today?_

"_Mass. It's Sunday."_

_So it is. It's been three – no, four - days. I shake my head. "You're not going to Mass today, son."_

_Not today. Not ever. If there's truly a God then he abandoned us in a room with a life-support machine and no hope. And if it hadn't been for her faith…_

_Scott bites his lip, clearly conflicted ///_

…

I dismiss all of them except Scott.

I'm painfully aware that we have our issues. But he's done a good job these past two days. I need to try to get that through to him. I don't want him to think that the decision I've made is a reflection on his leadership.

I wave him through to the balcony, stopping to pour a couple of whiskies on the way. He's on standby so much of the time he doesn't get to indulge our mutual taste for quality single malt very often. I hesitate a moment before offering him a cigarette. His status as a smoker or non-smoker is another one of those things he likes to keep us guessing about. He declines.

He leans heavily across the guard rail and I wonder whether I should sit him down before he falls down. It happened once; he made it home and then collapsed in his plane, electrolytes shot to hell.

But what I have to say won't take long.

I know he's listening. But he's characteristically tense.

"It must have been pretty tough out there today."

He shakes his head.

"We're okay. We got through it. They did a good job."

It's typical of Scott that he deflects by trying to praise his brothers.

"You kept going with the girl longer than you should have done, you know that."

"I know."

"It can't have been easy to let her go."

"No."

It's the first time this has happened. I'm expecting more of a reaction and wait a moment.

"It was harder on Virj," he continues, hesitatingly.

I'm concerned about him, too, but I'll deal with that later. I'm curious, I admit. I had thought it would be the other way around – that it would be Scott beating himself up about the little girl, and Virgil trying to calm the situation. Shows how much I know.

"Ultimately you're the one who had to make the call. First time you've lost someone."

"We've pulled out bodies before."

"I know. But this is different. She was alive when you pulled her out. And she was just a child."

Again I give him some time to open up, but typically, he doesn't.

"How are you doing with that?" I prompt.

He half-nods. I have no idea what he intends this to mean.

"You're good with it?" I'm a little incredulous that he's handling it _so_ matter-of-factly. Maybe he's just tired.

"I'm not good with it, no. I'd have taken the risk on moving her earlier if I knew the building was going to come down." I made a note to myself at the debrief to talk to Brains. We need a better early warning system. The intel was just not good enough here. "But I didn't know," he continues. "I don't see I could have handled it any differently." Now we're getting somewhere. His tone is testy and I suspect I was right all along – he _is_ still beating himself up about the whole thing.

"You couldn't. That's the point. You handled it just fine, son. Virgil will get over it. But I guess you're still feeling pretty lousy."

"I'll live with it," he rejoinders shortly.

But he looks a little lost, and just for a moment, I'm tempted to reach out to him. I know he won't tolerate it. He downs some of the whisky quickly, an aversion tactic.

"Good. This was always going to happen, son."

"I know," he says. He sounds a little defeated.

"It was the right decision to quit when you did. And I know it must be tough. This must have been one of your worst days so far."

"I guess."

He passes a hand across his face wearily, pinches his nose.

I wish so much I knew how to get through the barrier he puts up. I'm not good at this. I've tried sneaking in under it, I've tried to punch a hole in it often enough. Nothing penetrates. I _know_ he cares about what he does but he's damned if he's going to talk to me about it.

"I remember when you were a kid, you'd tell your brothers stories about an outfit like ours."

And then all at once the barricade _does_ drop momentarily and he smiles unexpectedly. His face softens and for the briefest of moments he reminds me of Lucy.

"I guess the good guys always won in the stories."

I guess they did. I know what he's trying to say.

"Well, I can tell you, son, any leader of an outfit like ours is going to have two more days like the one you've had today." It's time we faced up to the realities of what we're doing. I'm as guilty of losing myself in the romance of it all as any of the boys. I ought to know better. "The first time is when he has to make the call between abandoning the people he's trying to help and putting the team's own lives on the line."

He nods briefly. "And the second?" he asks dully.

When you get to my age you start to realise life's a game of clock solitaire. You wait there, hoping you don't turn up the last King before you reach the end of the pack and maybe you'll die in bed at a ripe old age, a life lived to the full.

Something tells me that Scott already hears that clock ticking, and he doesn't give a damn, maybe even welcomes it. And that scares the hell out of me.

He'll take great care of his brothers, I know he will. But I don't want it to be his fault if something goes wrong.

And I'm less certain he'll be so careful for his own safety.

"The second is when he gets that call wrong, son."

And when I see the look on his face, I know I've made the right decision. It shouldn't be his call. He isn't ready for all this.

…


	13. Chapter 13

**Scott**

…

I should fall straight to sleep. God knows I'm tired enough.

But Dad's final words drift around in my head, refusing to go away.

_When_ you make the wrong call. Not _if._

I don't understand. Is he expecting me to throw my brothers' lives away? I am _not_ going to screw up here. I know how and when to take risks, and when not to. And I know the first rule is not to endanger their lives. I won't let them take stupid chances.

There's always the possibility that one of them will go rogue, I suppose. That's why we train and keep on training. I don't want them to be the ones taking the life and death decisions.

I lie there, staring up at the ceiling.

My brothers are my whole life. I don't know what I'd do if I lost one of them. And if it was my fault… I guess that's what Dad's asking me to think about.

Dad's truly crazy; International Rescue is an affair of the heart, not the head. If he'd used his head we'd never be here where we are today. This is a mission, a calling, for him. Him and me both.

When did I buy into it? I don't know. A long time ago. In the story-days. Way before he made it a reality. When I was a kid and he romanced us all with his ideals of something better for humanity. And I wanted for it to happen. I wanted so much to be a part of it. But you know - you just think it's just a story, it's nothing more. I never actually thought he'd make it happen, _could_ make it happen. That _anyone_ could. You have to hand it to him, the outfit is one of the most remarkable institutions one man ever achieved.

And then he nearly shut me out, damn him. I know he doesn't think much of me. I gave up a long time ago trying to make him proud of me and settled for just trying to keep my nose clean. But maybe he confuses my feelings for ambivalence about what he stands for, what he's achieved. I know he thinks that of all of us I'm the one who doesn't get it, doesn't buy into it. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I'll die before I let his dream die. So if he's a little crazy, then I am too.

Just not so crazy that I will throw my brothers' lives away. Not for anyone. My motives are purely selfish. I need them. All of them. I try to imagine life without them and I just can't go there.

I'm lucky, I guess. How many people are this close to their siblings? Virj, Johnny, Gordo. I love all three of them like crazy.

Alan, I don't know. I don't always _like_ him. That sounds awful, but it's the truth.

I'm hoping he'll grow up sometime soon. I guess we don't have a whole lot in common. Well, we have one thing - Dad would have chosen differently for the both of us, but I am _never_ going to be the one to tell him that. Maybe on some level he knows, I don't know.

Maybe the age gap between us is just one step too far. Or maybe it's because despite the fact that Mom always let me help with the other three - I fed them all, I nursed them when they cried, I diapered them - Grandma scarcely let me near him. Now he's like a spoilt kid half the time. He doesn't even know when a good thing is staring him in the face. It's obvious that Tin-Tin is crazy about him, and he treats her like dirt most of the time. I know damn well he plays away whenever he gets the opportunity. She doesn't deserve that.

I love him, of course I do. But no, I don't always like him. When I look at him I feel a kind of guilt. I should have tried harder, been there the way I was for the others. But the bottom line is if something happened to Alan, the whole thing would be pointless. Mom, I mean. What would be the point of what happened to Mom if he wasn't here?

Yeah, so Alan worries me sometimes. Losing any one of the others would break my heart. Losing Alan would finish me. He's so damned hot-headed, and he can be such a loose cannon. I'm still not certain that when it comes down to the wire that he won't take matters into his own hands. That's why I have other plans for him. But the others?

No way on earth am I going to let anything happen to them. If someone has to take an unacceptable risk, it's going to be me, not one of them. It's pure selfishness. I can't take another loss.

God, I'm tired.

…

_I start to drift._

…

I'm immobile. I hear the door open, feel the familiar dark sense of presence.

I struggle, knowing I have to move now before he reaches me. I'm utterly alone. The sense of urgency is gaining, but still I can't stir myself into full wakefulness.

_He's close. Beside me. I still can't see him, can't force myself to resist. _

_An unwelcome weight presses down on my back and legs, a grinding pain starts up in my lower ribs, the rigid constraint preventing me from struggling._

_The pressure and the pain increases._

_I feel myself slipping away, the world turning black around me._

_But…something's different._

_Not…._

_What _is_ this?_

_At first there's only darkness, but it isn't the usual sense of nothingness. This is an altogether more welcome sensation. Then I realise it isn't entirely dark. There's a faint, bluish light. Around me, the glow increases. It isn't a warm glow, it's coldly beautiful. Still the blueness of the light increases until finally it's brighter than anything I could imagine, yet somehow it's not blinding._

_I no longer know where I am, or even who I am._

_I have no name. I am merely the essence of self._

_But I feel a sense of profound calm flood my whole being._

_The ambient blueness illuminates stone. Light floods in, from above, high windows in the walls. I have no idea what this place is. A temple? A tomb? _

_As my senses begin to focus, I can make out a woman, robed in blue, lying serene on a slab of stone, her hands folded across her breast. She's motionless, her eyes closed. She is both young and old, both dead and alive. I cannot see her face clearly because the brightness of the light obscures her features. But I can tell she's beautiful. And perfectly serene. I don't know who she is, but I feel as though I must know her. _

_I feel no need to move or ever to leave this place. _

_It is the place __**between**__._

_I have come home._

…


	14. Chapter 14

Jeff

…

/// _"Don't you dare turn your back on me, young man!"_

_He swings around, fearful, but his mouth set, no hint of conciliation._

"_I mean it, Scott. You're not going. You're sixteen years of age. When you're eighteen, you can do what you like. But you don't bring it into this house, and you don't ever talk to your brothers about it."_

"_It's what Mom would have wanted."_

"_Don't throw that at me. I'm here, she isn't. And this isn't what _I_ want. How the hell do you think this would look if it got out? Scott, damn it, you know I've made a public stand on this."_

"_And that's all that matters to you, isn't it?"_

_He reaches for his jacket._

"_Damn you, Scott – you go and I swear you're not coming back."_

"_Fine," he mutters._

"_Think about it," I threaten. "You walk out of that door and you're on your own. You won't see your brothers again."_

_The shock registers, and I watch the color drain from his face. His shoulders slump and he replaces the jacket._

_At one level I'm ashamed of myself for being so manipulative. Fleetingly, contradictorily, I shoot out a thought to a woman I refuse to acknowledge exists except in my memory, asking her to forgive me. But he'll thank me for it eventually. Damn it, it took me years to claw my way through the fear and the uncertainty and the superstition to get myself to where I am now. I don't want any of the boys to be that hung up. Ever ///_

…

I look in on each of my boys in turn.

It's something I used to do at night when they were small, but it's become a habit again after a difficult rescue. It's partly a psychological prop. I need to convince myself I've got them all back safely. But there's a practical element too. They're none of them complainers, and more than one of them has come back needing medical attention and said nothing. I like to make sure they're basically in one piece. And I count the bruises and remind myself what it is I'm asking of them every day.

I start with Gordon, poke my head into his room, the light from the hallway casting a shaft across the space. I love Gordon's room. It sure is untidy, but there's a sort of order to the chaos. Gordon's a hoarder, a collector. Anything of interest that washes up on the beach usually finds its way up here sooner or later.

It's a hot evening and he's lying on top of the sheets, buck naked as the day he was born. Most of the others will be in the same state of undress. Comes of being brought up in a family without many women-folk, I guess. Gordon, in particular, has never been one for modesty, and he's happy in his own skin. When Tin-Tin or mother is on the island he usually remembers to make the effort not to wander around the house like this. The rest of the time he doesn't give a damn.

Sure enough, a nasty graze on his forearm is already blackening. It's clean enough but there's obvious swelling. I back out, only to find Kyrano standing by with an ice-pack. I swear that man knows me better than I know myself. He smiles quietly at my expression, evidently amused.

Gordon chunters a little as I strap the pack into place around the wound, then suddenly opens his eyes wide and beams at me.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey yourself, son."

I'm not fooled. He's sound asleep. The point is proven by his next comment.

"I'm headed down to Sunny Cove. Surfing's great down there."

"Sure, son."

There's no Sunny Cove, and no surfing to be had anywhere on the island.

He prattles happily to me for a few more moments, most of it nonsense, then shuts his eyes again. He won't remember this when he wakes.

I lean over, kiss his forehead. "Sleep well, son."

Virgil next. I poke my head rather dubiously around his door. I used to think he was meticulously neat and tidy, but when Scott left home it became quickly obvious how wrong I was. How Scott – who borders on the obsessive compulsive - tolerated sharing a room with him for so long is beyond me. He must have been picking up after his brother for years. For someone who makes such an effort with his personal appearance, Virgil lives like a sloven. I pick my way gingerly through piles of artist's materials, books, dirty linen, oil-covered rags; name it, it's there on the floor, gathering dust.

He's the only one of my boys who doesn't look younger when he's asleep. He always sleeps with that faint frown, as though there's some business he's forgotten to take care of while awake. I lay a hand on his shoulder and tug gently. He sleeps like the dead, always has; it'll take a lot more to wake him, but he rolls over obligingly, grunting a little. Despite his close shave when the building collapsed, I can't see any evidence of serious physical injury. The emotional trauma he's been through today will take some healing, though. I'm uncomfortable when he's out of sorts, particularly when his anger is directed at Scott. It'll settle, but it may be an awkward few days.

I hesitate by Scott's door, bypass it for now. I've kept him up longer than the others, and he may not be asleep yet.

John, next door, is flat out.

It never ceases to surprise me that of all of them, John is the most child-like in sleep. The layers of sophistication and intellectual detachment that have built up over the years just peel right away. The long fair hair and somewhat androgynous good looks are belied by his aggressive pursuit of women when he's awake. I brush back a stray lock that has fallen across his face. He doesn't stir. I guess he must be truly exhausted. He's hyper-acusive, and usually wakes at the slightest noise; one of the reasons I eventually caved in to him when he was a child and moved Virgil out of his room and in with Scott.

He, too, looks injury-free, bar some minor bruising. I never intended for John to get involved with the physical work. It seems to me to be a travesty to risk his particular set of skills by putting him in harm's way. But he seems to be coping well enough with the world into which he has been unexpectedly thrown.

I steel myself for Scott and am relieved to find him asleep, too, lying face to the ceiling. Again, bruising on the forearms and hands, but I can't see any other sign of injury. However, he's the only one who's bothered to cover up, and I can't be certain. There's a light sheen of sweat on his face, but it's a hot evening. I'd like to reach out, check that he isn't running a fever. But I hesitate. He's physically close with his brothers. Never with me. And there's the practical consideration; sometimes when he's roused he'll come up fighting tooth and claw, no idea where he is or what's going on. With _his_ training that's a potentially lethal state of affairs. We've all learned to keep our distance.

I watch him for a few moments. I wish he felt settled here, that this is home. Maybe I need to do some more thinking about mother, at least. Perhaps we could leave it a year or so, just give him a little more time to get used to the idea. She could visit more often; give them both some time to come to terms with living with one another again. Maybe I'll bring her over during the winter months, see how it goes from there. But the other issues…well, he isn't going to like it. Tomorrow. I'll get Virj to tell him tomorrow…hell, no. I'd best wait till they are back on better terms. Next week, maybe.

"Scott?" I query softly.

He moans softly in response. His sleep is fitful. He's twitchy, like a cat, his eyes moving in REM sleep. Dreaming, but somehow I don't think the dream is a pleasant one.

I sit awkwardly on the edge of his bed and steel myself to take a risk, for the first time in years.

I reach forward and touch his forehead gently, stroking his hair back.

He feels cool enough to the touch. He shifts position, then settles again with a murmur. And seems to relax, his breathing easing to a slow rhythm.

I watch him for a long while, my hand resting on his brow. And I swear that for the first time in the longest time he actually looks at peace.

"Sleep easy, son," I say softly.

…


End file.
